First Frost

The thin layer of ice in the bird bath this morning prompted me to grab gloves and a headband before heading to the pond today. Although I walked around noon, the ground was still frosted in the shady nooks and crannies that had yet to see the light of day.

Frequent rains have raised the level of the pond, and the plants have a rather "munched upon" look to them. It's a different pond today than it was in the summer, for sure. About a dozen ducks dabbled about; mallards, shovelers, and widgeons are the most common visitors now.

I took a few minutes to step beyond the worn path today -- both literally and figuratively -- in order to plop down on a log to rest, to be still. The quiet was welcome, allowing for uninterrupted reflection and prayer. (Interesting that I literally saw "reflections" in the water as I listened and pondered.)

The frosted landscape, the icy blue sky, the dazzling sunlight and the barren branches called John 15 to mind, a passage I've been working to memorize over the last few weeks.

Every branch that does bear fruit, He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.

John 15:2

Sometimes pruning takes place in an unexpected, intrusive way, with shears and clippers. Other times, pruning is natural, quiet, and slow. This is the pruning I observed around me today. The frost that subdued the landscape, the leaves that quietly fell, the branches that slowly bared, the air that carried fewer and fewer rustles, chirps and squeaks. This is the natural death that, come spring, will burst once again to vibrant, glorious life.

It must be acknowledged, however, that even this death, even this pruning, has an unmistakable beauty of its own.

As if the heavens had dripped molten sunlight over the landscape, 

fiery hues burst forth when autumn reaches its magnificent crescendo.

(From Victoria Magazine)

After a time, I reluctantly left my quiet little log and turned away from the pond. As I did so, my eye caught the sunlight as it danced in a secret corner of the woods beyond the barbed wire fence, beyond the frost. I marveled as I beheld a sight I'd never noticed before: A small stone stairway stretched upward like Jacob's ladder, golden light illuminating each step.

When we willingly surrender to the wise pruning, to the purifying frost, to the barren isolation, exposure, and raw dependence, the light will come.

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.

Psalm 119:105

Thou wilt make known to me the path of life. In Thy presence is fullness of joy.

Psalm 16:11

And this is the glorious, resplendent light that illumines our steps and beautifies our lives with a deeper faith, hope, and love than we otherwise would have known.